


Shameless Impurity

by CriseydetheTraitor



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29771133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CriseydetheTraitor/pseuds/CriseydetheTraitor
Summary: After Ostagar, Alistair is the single surviving Grey Warden, left to pick up the pieces. As he blunders through Ferelden, Alistair finds himself caught between yearning for what he sees as Leliana's "pure" love and suppressing his strictly carnal for a dangerous witch of the wilds. Though there are similarities to origins, this is quite AU.
Relationships: Alistair/Leliana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Leliana/Josephine Montilyet
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3





	Shameless Impurity

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this years ago on FF.net. I thought I would repost it here and finish it. The story is a big hypothetical idea I've tossed around in my head since I first played through the Darkspawn Chronicles. What if Alistair were the sole Grey Warden left to save Ferelden? The characters in this story might at times seem a bit OOC, but that is mostly because I want to give the story a classic, chivalrous vibe. I hope they are not too out of character. The characters may also seem quite young, but that is because I study medieval literature and can't help but imagine them that way. It adds to the grittiness of the dangerous world in which they live.
> 
> I will update twice a month.

From the time Alistair was very young, the Arl had warned him about the forest beyond his estate. The boy was permitted to visit the village whenever he desired but the forest was deemed too dangerous and best left to the imagination. Until his fourteenth birthday, Alistair had respected the Arl’s wishes, deigning only to go as far as the edge of the forest and to imagine, not without some fear, what might lay beyond the borders of Redcliffe village. On his fourteenth birthday, however, Alistair approached the forest’s edge with new resolve. Today, he would enter the forest, no matter Arl Eamon’s wishes. After all, it was Arl Eamon who was sending him away-away to the monastery where he would become a Templar and lose his identity, become one of many and slip into an anonymous life of mage hunting. And it was all because the new Arlessa couldn’t stand the sight of him. Alistair hated her-hated them both-and could think of nothing more appealing at that moment than directly defying the Arl’s orders. 

Yet in spite of his fury, Alistair still felt a jolt of fear as he stepped out of the sunlit meadow and into the cool shade of the trees. He took a moment to observe his surroundings. Everything, it seemed to him, was green and lush, from the moss beneath his feet to the leaves brushing his light brown hair. He shivered. It was mysterious, unexplored; it was horrifying and beautiful all at once. He suppressed the urge to return whence he had come and ventured further into the depths of the forest.  
For half an hour or so, he made his way through trees and, though he failed to escape the feeling that he was being watched, he saw no signs of life. Eventually, the trees parted, giving way to the most enchanting sight yet: a glade was in the center of this forbidden wood and, within it, there was a curious collection of large stones. Thoroughly perplexed, Alistair approached the stones, wondering who-or what?-would place so many perfectly round stones in a circle like this. What could it possibly mean? As he approached, he realized that a single stone, larger than the rest, was situated directly in the middle of the circle. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the middle stone was decorated in what appeared to be dried blood.

Suddenly pulled out of the peaceful reverie that had overcome him since he had stepped into the forest, Alistair felt his blood run cold and his pulse start to race. There was so much blood. Was it really blood? At once, he longed to see the Arl again, to beg his forgiveness and assure him that he would never be disobedient again. Anything was better than staring at this now menacing sequence of stones that he felt sure had witnessed the brutal end of someone’s life. 

As he turned to leave the forest, he heard a slight rustling in the nearby brush and froze in the futile hope that, if he remained still, he might also remain unseen. Unfortunately for Alistair, the noisy creature refused to stay in the shadows where it belonged and, as it stepped into the light of the glade, he was surprised to find himself staring into the face of an adorably beautiful young woman. He felt, at that moment, that he had never seen anyone more astonishing. Her bizarre golden eyes shone in the light of the dying sun and her full lips were curled in what appeared to be some mixture of amusement and disdain. Her attire, little more than a compilation of surprisingly fine jewelry and rags, immediately inspired Alistair to glance away, finding that he was too ashamed to openly admire what she had chosen to display. There was something nearly animal about her. She was quite thin, far thinner than the noblemen at court usually preferred their ladies, and had long, shapely legs such that might belong to a graceful woodland sprite in the legends Arl Eamon had shared with him before he had grown too old for tall tales. And yet, in spite of all her wildness, she was exquisitely civilized. As she raised a hand to scrape a lock of raven hair away from her face, Alistair fought the urge to gasp. He didn’t breathe, afraid that, if he did, she might vanish. His elation at the sight of this creature before him had washed away the terror that had overwhelmed him just moments before. 

As Alistair stood, dumbfounded, the young woman’s initially somewhat disdainful expression fell away in favor of one of pure amusement and delight. “Well, well, what have we here?” Her tone was light, mocking. Alistair’s sense of fear began to return. All of the Arls stories were beginning to come back to him at a breakneck speed. This woman, no doubt, was an apostate. She looked to be even younger than he was but he knew that that wouldn’t account for her power. Mages developed quickly and were dangerous from quite a young age. 

The woman spoke again, cutting into his thoughts, “Why have you come? I’ve seen you many times but you’ve never once come here. What could I assume but that you were too frightened to venture into these wilds? I’ve been watching you this afternoon, you see. Why is a noble boy here? I asked myself, where is he going? So tell me, why have you come? Are you a scavenger, an intruder?” She cocked an eyebrow. 

Alistair was shocked. A noble boy? Had she seen him on the Arl’s estate before and inferred that he was part of the family? He shuddered at the thought that he had been observed without his knowledge. “How dare you spy on the Arl’s household!” he exclaimed, “You’re an apostate.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “And an apostate who could take your life in the next minute if I wished. I’d advise you to retain some manners and answer my questions civilly lest you end up in a less than desirable situation…This is my home after all. If you are so viciously opposed to meeting apostates, perhaps you should have known better than to venture into the wilds at all.”

Alistair knew she had a point. After all, that was surely the primary reason the Arl had cautioned him against walking in the wilderness. Certainly, there were a multitude of dangers to be found in the wilds but apostate mages ranked among the most threatening of them all. Alistair took a deep breath and, with an effort to steady his voice, he managed, “I’m..I’m not a noble boy at all. I just live with the Arl and he provides for me. My mother was a servant in his household and she has been dead for years. I’m no one, really. The Arl is just..an exceptionally kind man.”  
The woman smirked, “Great men are only truly kind if they have some practical reason for being thus. His kindness toward you, his protection of you, it’s a means to an end. But what end? Really, I’m so glad you’ve come here. I’ve been wondering at the Arl’s reasons for taking you on as a ward for quite some time.”

Alistair finally lost his patience. “Quite some time? What do you mean? Do you mean you’ve been spying on Arl Eamon for years? On me? What would that accomplish? Who are you?” His last question was hurled at her, like a curse. 

The witch’s smile vanished, “What did I say about your manners?”

Alistair glanced at the blood-drenched stone and was silent. To his surprise, the woman took his silence as a cue to respond to his questions. “Yes, I’ve been watching you. It does, at times, grow rather boring in the wilds after all. What could be better entertainment than watching the family dynamics of a pretentious, wealthy household?”

Alistair was aghast. “You haven’t the slightest idea what goes on at the Arl’s estate, you foolish woman. Stop pestering me and allow me to return at once.” 

Alistair hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. The young woman’s smile never faltered. “Not without at least knowing your name.” She almost whispered and, despite himself, Alistair felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

“Why would I tell an apostate anything about me?”

The woman scoffed, “Again with this apostate nonsense? ‘Tis most infuriating, truly. Is your fear of the unknown so great that you won’t deign to discover more about matters you know nothing of?”

Alistair hesitated. The woman’s beguiling behavior was, however briefly, allowing him to think more clearly and recall the anger he had been feeling toward the Arl. Having a conversation with an apostate seemed like the perfect form of secret, silent revenge against the old man. “I..well..I suppose you’re right. I’m Alistair. It is nice to meet you. ”

The woman smiled brightly, “Now there is a proper, civil greeting. Was that so difficult?”

“But what of your name? You didn’t tell me.”

“You can call me Morrigan.”

Morrigan…the name suited her somehow. It felt wild, it felt dangerous. Some of his previous trepidation returned as he considered her name. Nonetheless, he resolved to remain in the wilds and gain a better understanding of this creature. He could think of worse afternoons. If nothing else, she was very beautiful. Alistair shook himself at the thought. He was to go to the monastery whether he liked it or not. There would be none of that for him. 

“And how old are you, Morrigan?” Alistair asked carefully.

Morrigan recoiled somewhat, as if insulted that he would pose a question at all. It was her job to interrogate and his duty to indulge her. “What is that to you?”

“A question.” Alistair retorted. “You’ve asked me some. I’ll answer some of them but I feel that this is the sort of process that goes both ways.”

Morrgian sighed, as if much put upon. “Nearly thirteen summers old.” 

Alistair nodded. She was almost his age. That seemed right somehow. And yet there was a wisdom attached to her, lingering on her, that seemed so much older. He shivered again, though this time for a different reason. “I am fourteen. That makes us almost the same age.”

“What a brilliant observation!”

Alistair reddened. “If you are going to insult me, I will not talk to you.”

Morrigan laughed, a surprisingly airy and delightful sound. “And spoil the fun? I don’t think so. Yes, we’re the same age but I suspect we’re very different. Surprise me. Tell me a story about the nobles.” Her lips still held their mocking snarl but there was something undeniably sincere about her question. This woman, this apostate, wanted to learn about his life. And so he indulged her, telling her all about his life in Redcliffe Castle and, barring the occasional question, she listened. He watched her bright eyes widen in surprise or in delight as he spoke and, as the afternoon faded to evening, she offered to lead him out of the wilds. He accepted her offer without question. She had, in a matter of hours, gone from being a terrifying apostate to the most charming being alive. It was only when they reached the forest’s edge that he recalled the mysterious stones near where they had met and he realized that he knew almost nothing about her. 

“Morrigan,” he started, loving the way that that exotic, enchanting name felt on his lips, “are you..” he faltered, his courage gone for the first time in hours. 

Morrigan cocked her head and started to roll her eyes but the gesture was, he could tell, more affectionate than it might have been earlier that afternoon, “What is it, Alistair?”

“Are you a witch of the wilds?” he blurted out, hardly believing he had managed to say the words aloud. The arl’s tales of witches of the wilds had always frightened him though he wouldn’t admit it. Even now, as he looked at Morrigan, he had trouble reconciling her with those legends. 

Morrigan snickered, “A witch of the wilds? Is that what I seem to be?”

Alistair shook his head. “No, I mean, yes, but no. Oh Maker, I can’t speak.”

“Then don’t.” Morrigan murmured. Slowly, she put a long finger to his lips. Alistair froze, not daring to move for fear that she might pull her hand away. 

She did, after a fleeting moment, withdraw her hand but only so that she could replace the hand with her lips. Alistair was momentarily too shocked to react. He had never before been kissed at all. He had assumed, of course, now that he was to become a Templar, that he might never be kissed at all. He returned the kiss, hoping desperately that Morrigan wouldn’t find his efforts laughable. 

Just as he began to enjoy himself, the witch pulled away. “Now, I’m sending you to the monastery properly, Alistair Therin. Not many Templars can say they’ve been kissed by a witch of the wilds.” With a charming smirk, Morrigan turned away from him and seemingly vanished. There was, he noticed, a small crow in her place…where had she gone? It seemed to him for a moment that the crow maintained Morrigan’s glance. But that wasn’t possible. Not even magic could achieve a change like that. 

“Morrigan!” he called out, “Morrigan, wait!” But there was no use. The mage had vanished. It wasn’t until he started his reluctant trek home that he realized with a jolt that she knew his last name. She knew who he truly was! But how? And what did it mean? Such questions troubled him but didn’t plague him as they should have. After all, the memory of Morrigan’s lips proved more powerful than any of his other thoughts.  
xxx

She haunted him during those first few months at the monastery. Initially, he longed for her to appear before his window one evening, perhaps even join him in his sparsely decorated, humble room for a night in his bed. However, as the months passed, these feelings were ones he began to suppress with determination. Morrigan had merely beguiled him, as witches were apt to do, and used him to extract information for her own purposes, though he could barely imagine what those might be. She was dangerous and she had known too much. He even wondered briefly if he might perhaps write to the Arl and warn him of the young woman’s presence in the nearby forest but whenever he picked up the quill to do so, the action felt somehow wrong to him and he always told himself he would do it the next week. He carried on in this way, sporadically dreaming of her and cursing himself when he woke, until Duncan came. 

Just after his sixteenth birthday, Alistair was on the verge of being dismissed from the monastery. Though he tried to keep up with his studies, a deep depression had made its way into his bones during his first year of study and its shadow was not easily escaped. By the middle of his second year, Alistair, though undeniably bright, was no longer passing his classes and was only doing fairly well in his beginning Templar training. Sometimes, during the training, he would see Morrigan’s face when he attacked the mage dummies and, in those moments, he found it impossible to continue. He had nights when he cursed the Arl for assigning him to this life. Was being a royal bastard such a liability? It wasn’t as if he had any desire to achieve the throne. Why was an ambitionless bastard necessarily confined to a life of chastity and striking down abominations? Alistair felt too angry to devote any time toward improving in his studies and, as he began to officially fail his classes at the end of his second year, his downward spiral was at last complete. 

Which was why, when Duncan of the Grey Wardens arrived insisting that Alistair would make a fine recruit, Alistair leapt at the opportunity. Here at last was a chance for him to be successful, a chance to escape the shadow of his identity and develop his own future. For the first time in years, Alistair felt his depression lift as the Grey Wardens became the family he had never had. He admired them all though perhaps none more than Duncan, who had become to him the father he had always wanted. His admiration was such that, in fact, he never questioned the man’s judgment, not even when he announced that there was a true Darkspawn Blight approaching and that, in addition to finding new recruits who could, as Alistair had, undergo the joining and become wardens, the wardens would also be enlisting the help of the Maker. Duncan was a devout Andrastian but that was not something he often mentioned in polite conversation. One day, about three months after Alistair joined the wardens, however, Duncan called the Grey Wardens before him and told them that a very special recruit was soon to join their party. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” he began, “but we’ve gained a new recruit who I believe is destined to turn the tide of this oncoming conflict in our favor. I’ve put her through the joining and, as I suspected, she passed. Her name is Leliana. She hails from Lothering’s chantry and claims that the Maker himself has spoken to her, insisting that she must join the wardens for the sake of Ferelden. And I believe her.”

Alistair and all of his peers were aghast. Everyone knew the Maker had spoken to no one for centuries. Why then was Duncan so convinced of this girl’s honesty? 

Riordan, a respected senior member among the wardens of Orlais who was currently visiting the Ferelden chapter put voice to everyone’s thoughts. “You know that I want to honor the Maker’s wishes but…how can you be sure that she’s telling the truth at all, Duncan? And where would a chantry sister have been taught to fight?”

Duncan cast a disapproving glance at Riorden. “I’d have thought by now that you would know to trust my judgment, Riorden. Nevertheless, you can see her and decide for yourself if you think she is sincere.” Ignoring Riorden’s perfectly audible grunt of dismay, he glanced toward the side of the room, “Leliana, come and meet your new brothers and sisters.” 

Whatever concerns Alistair might have been harboring over this new recruit’s honesty faded as soon as he laid eyes on her. Leliana was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman Alistair had ever seen. She had dark red hair, cut surprisingly short though the length made her appearance striking rather than awkward. She wore chain mail armor, which, clinging to her body as it did, did little to hide her curvy figure. Her skin was alabaster and like porcelain; her eyes a deep green. Alistair felt puzzled and amazed at once. How had such a graceful young woman become a nun to begin with? And how had a chantry sister developed the adequate skill set to become a Grey Warden? As Leliana began to speak, Alistair was overwhelmed by yet another shock. The woman was no doubt Orleasian. It wasn’t unheard of for foreign wardens to join Ferelden’s ranks but the presence of an Orleasian nun in Lothering was something Alistair found intensely puzzling. As Leliana cleared her voice in order to speak more loudly, Alistair felt her searing gaze fall on him and, as his eyes rose to meet hers, he felt as if, for the first time since meeting Morrigan, he had finally been washed clean. Duncan was right. Leliana’s soul was the most pure, the most beautiful, that Alistair had ever seen. No one could doubt that she was genuine. 

“I had been in Lothering for some time,” she began in her musical voice, “when, one evening, after falling asleep, I had the most vivid dream. You see, there is a dead bush in the courtyard of Lothering’s Chantry but, in my dream, it had blossomed and was covered with roses. When I approached the bush, I felt inexpressibly happy but then, it all faded to blackness suddenly and there was nothing left at all.”

“You dreamt of the blight.” Alistair said before he could stop himself. Immediately, his cheeks burned with embarrassment. He had been so engrossed in Leliana’s story that he had been unable to prevent himself from interjecting, perhaps with some hope of helping her explain herself. 

In spite of his embarrassment, he was rewarded with a huge smile. “Yes, I suppose I did.” Leliana responded, “The morning after my dream, I went out into the courtyard and found a single rose nestled in the dead bush. What was this, if not a sign from the Maker himself? I knew then that I would be needed to stop the blight once and for all. I had not trained with weapons since I was a child in Orlais but I had a sudden urge to do so, if I only to convince myself that I could be ready to help. When Duncan arrived two days later, I have to confess that I wasn’t surprised. That was the Maker’s final message, urging me to come along, to save his Andraste’s homeland and all of its people. I know that…that some of you may not believe me but I promise that my story is true and that my abilities will not disappoint you. I had thought the Maker desired me to enter his service as a sister but I suppose he had another plan for me. And he has a plan for us all. I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you. We will stop this blight together!”

By the time she fell silent, the majority of people in the room believed Leliana’s tale or at least believed that she herself believed it. Alistair believed it whole-heartedly and was enthralled. He found himself wanting to speak to her but feeling genuinely bashful. In another life, a life in which neither of them were wardens, this was the sort of woman Alistair had dreamed of taking for his wife. When Leliana finally did approach him, she was almost shy. Alistair was sitting at one of the long tables in the wardens’ fortress, trying to focus on the food in front of him when he smelled her, that distinct earthy, yet oddly perfumed scent with which he would become so familiar in the coming months, “Is anyone sitting here?” she asked. 

Alistair gulped, “Well, you can be.”

Leliana giggled which made Alistair grin involuntarily, “I was hoping you might say so. You made a very astute comment while I was speaking earlier. Tell me, what is your name?”

He blushed and replied, “Alistair.” 

“Alistair.” Leliana said aloud, as if trying on the name for size, “A solid name for a solid young man. I believe the Maker smiles on you.”

At that moment, Alistair cared less for the Maker’s smile than he did for Leliana’s. Leliana was loquacious and, within moments, she was telling him about Lothering, about her childhood in Orlais, and pausing to listen as he described his first few months in the wardens. They laughed, amused, when they discovered that they had both begun their journeys within the walls of the chantry. By the end of their conversation, Alistair realized that it had been the opposite of his exchange with Morrigan, in which she had listened to everything silently, as a sullen child might. She had been judging him, he felt now. She must have been. With Leliana, they had spoken freely, they had spoken as equals. And when she had dismissed herself to go to bed, he hadn’t wanted her to go. He had wanted to hold her to him and kiss her, kiss her so that she could, with her untouched lips, wipe away the last of impurity Morrigan might have left behind. 

As Alistair was lost in his thoughts, he did not hear Riorden approach until he was nearly upon him, “Be careful with that Leliana, I do not trust her.”

Alistair snorted. “You don’t trust anyone.” 

“That is simply not true. But, whatever Duncan says, a girl who claims to have heard from the Maker is nothing but trouble. Mark my words.” Riorden sighed heavily, as if some notable weight were on his shoulders. “You should get some sleep, Alistair. It is quite late, after all.”

“Very well.” Alistair agreed, “Suppose I’ll try. Good night to you.” Riorden nodded in his direction and departed.

Alistair remained inert for some time, attempting to recall the lyrical tone of Leliana’s voice.


End file.
